Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Last night I went out to see what the yelling in my backyard was about. Turned out, my family was playing...gasp...kickball.
Now to understand my feelings about kickball you have to go back about 30 years. For eight years of grade school, kickball had been a phys ed staple. We played at recess too. By the time we got to eighth grade, we were all familiar with who was good at the game and who wasn't. (No points for guessing which group I was in)
Eighth grade. Not the best time for most people in terms of that awkward phase. Anyway, there was this cute boy in the class I wanted to impress. He was on the other team and kicked a low fly ball right at me. For the first time in my kickball career, I caught it on the fly. He was most certainly NOT impressed. He never spoke to me again. In the logic of a 13 year old, I blamed sports. (Shallow 13 year old boys are fairly easy to blame now, but not then.) I swore I would never play kickball again.
I had no difficulty with that pledge since there is no recess in high school and college phys ed requirements were met with ballroom dance classes. So I had gone 30 years without missing it a bit. But there in my backyard were the people I love most playing the game I refused to join.
How exactly does a mom resist the pull of "Please! We need you on our team!" (Another phrase completely missing from those grade school experiences!) So I squared up to the 13 year old pitcher and aimed for the neighbors yard...and...
I ran around bases and yelled "One base on an overthrow" and even caught a ball on the fly. My husband was impressed. My children were impressed. And childhood cute boy, wherever he might be, didn't matter one bit.
Welcome back kickball!